Proxy
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: He's thinking of someone else. Missing scene from "Whac-a-mole." One-sided House/Chase UST, mild BDSM; non-explicit allusions to established House/Wilson.


The week after Tritter's little interrogation session, House pulls you aside and asks you to get him a refill on his Vicodin. And, somewhat to your surprise, you find yourself refusing.

"Detective Tritter knows about the scrips I wrote before."

"Exactly. If you stop now, it'll look suspicious."

You cock your head in disbelief. "Does anyone fall for that argument?"

"_Write the scrip_," House orders.

"No."

"One prescription isn't going to make-"

"We both know it's not going to be just one. I'd rather lose my job than lose my license." You turn with studied finality and walk out into the hall, but your brain is buzzing.

Tritter told Cameron that House stole Wilson's prescription pad and forged his signature. She doesn't want to believe this of him, but you have no trouble, because it fits with the tension between them lately, which you can tell is much more than the standard lovers' tiff. What you don't know is why House would take Wilson's pad, and worse, get caught. If he'd been that hard up for drugs, he could have come to you, as he has before. And yet you know that he wasn't, given the rumors that Tritter found hundreds of pills stashed away in his apartment when he searched it.

So House stole Wilson's pad specifically, and not because he needed to, but in order to make a statement. And probably it would have come to nothing, just been chalked up to yet another of his childish antics, except that he _had_ been caught, and now Wilson's lost his car, his cash, and his practice, and the man who means more to him than anyone else in the world can't be arsed to lift a finger to help him. Just like with Vogler, House actually seems to think that if he just keeps his head down and his nose clean, the big bad bully will just go away. But once again, it's gone much too far for that, and Wilson's the one paying the price.

It's a price that you aren't willing to pay, and you hate yourself a little bit because of that, even as your rational mind recognizes that maybe you should hate House more.

So, "No."

But there is something else you can try. Not hypnosis, for which House is a poor candidate, particularly now, given the requirements for a relaxed and suggestible mind. No, but there are other techniques, and although you know that House probably won't be able to contain his contemptuous taunts after this, you're willing to brave the brunt in order to offer him some relief.

Back in House's office, you close the blinds and start unbuckling your belt.

House's eyes get wide despite himself. "What are you-"

"Relax, it's not what you think," you say, and the length of leather slides smoothly out of its loops and dangles hungrily from your hand.

House swallows, then gives you a glimmer of a crooked, appreciative grin, a strange gleam in his appraising eyes. "Go to the desk," you order, keeping your voice low and your eyes locked steadily on his, "and bend over." And he gives you a long look that says, _I own you_, but the bottom line is that he goes and bends, forearms resting flat against his desk.

It's been so long since you've done this – not since that brief stint on the scene with your banker friend-with-benefits – but the muscle memory hasn't faded. And House isn't the only one who gasps and shudders every time the belt ends its arc through the air. And _Christ,_ this is creeping you out, not because he's a man, not even because he's your boss, but because it's like taking revenge on your dad and lusting after your mum all at the same time. Oedipus had nothing on you.

By the time it's over, House is glassy-eyed but clearly moving with less of a limp, while you are humiliatingly hard, struggling not to shift against your too-tight trousers, and you know that he knows, because what you've always admired most about the man is the way he never misses a damned thing.

You don't expect thanks, and House doesn't offer any, and as long as he forgives you for witnessing this instance of vulnerability, you figure it will be all right. But you can't help pointing out that this is only a temporary solution and he'd best get down to physical therapy for his shoulder before it gets any worse.

"It's nothing," he leers with a suggestive gesture. "Just been overusing my right wrist."

And you turn around and leave without saying that jerking him off is not part of your job description, or worse, that if he would just apologize to Wilson then he wouldn't need to worry about that anymore.

For some reason, Foreman is still in the conference room, staring at you as you cross the threshold a little too carefully, rebuckling your belt. "Chase, are you okay?" he hisses.

"Yeah, what d'you mean?"

"These walls aren't _soundproof._"

You start laughing, suddenly realizing what all that must have sounded like. "I'm fine," you assure him, casually making your way over to the desk for cover before sitting down. "But you should see the other guy."

"_Seriously?_" Foreman's face flashes from concerned to pissed off in a fraction of a second. "The shit we take from him on a daily basis is one thing, but if he's physically abusing you-"

"Sticks and stones," you say glibly. "House is all talk. You know he's never laid a finger on any of us." And then you give him a wink with, "Not even Cameron."

"Don't you have an LP to do?" House barks from the doorway. "And you, get your lazy Aussie ass over to that restaurant and start dumpster diving."

Foreman shrugs, eyes still shadowed with suspicion, and heads for the hallway. You grab your leather jacket and follow a few seconds later.

Wilson catches you on your way out and falls casually into step beside you. "How's House doing?"

"Better," you answer shortly, not risking even a sidelong glance.

"I heard," he says, and you wonder when House had time to tell him, but then you suddenly realize that he didn't, that Wilson literally meant he _heard_, and despite yourself you feel your face flushing a dull red, because you know that Wilson is way more aware than Foreman in general, and has much better reason to be with regard to House's affairs in particular.

"Don't worry," he adds, still matching your stride. "I assume you know what you're doing, and it beats him breaking his own bones." And then just like that, he peels off, presumably to head back to his own office, and you keep walking, shaking your head, wondering whether this week could possibly get any weirder.


End file.
